HEATHER GRAHAM
THE LAST NOEL

With much love and best wishes for some wonderful people

who are like Christmas gifts all year long:

Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs, Adam Wilson, Dianne Moggy,

Margaret Marbury, Loriana Sacilotto, Donna Hayes,

Craig Swinwood, Alex Osuszek, K.O., Marleah and all the folks

in PR and art, and very especially for an incredible woman

who can also spell—Leslie Wainger.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“But…this is Christmas Eve!”

The old man, frail and almost skeletally thin, stared at them in disbelief. His voice was tremulous, and he seemed to shake like a delicate, wind-blown leaf.

“You’re right. It is Christmas Eve, old-timer, and you’re not supposed to be here,” Scooter said.

Craig found that he couldn’t speak. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There shouldn’t have been anyone here. When he’d hooked up with Scooter Blane, the man had been all but invisible. He and his partner, Quintin Lark, were becoming heroes in a certain stratum of underworld society for their long string of extremely profitable robberies. But no one had ever gotten hurt. Ever.

But they only hit places that were empty.

Like this place should have been today.

There had been rumors, though. Rumors that the pair could be ruthless when they chose. But rumors were just rumors. Crooks needed them, went out of their way to create them, because they lived and died for them.

Killed for them?

But the real word on the street was that the pair were experts at slipping in and slipping out. Hitting fast, disappearing.

As far as Craig had been aware, they had never hurt anyone or even, thanks to careful planning, come across anyone still working during one of their heists.

He had discovered when he threw in with them that Scooter was frighteningly savvy with electronics. He’d seen that demonstrated when they arrived tonight and Scooter had broken the alarm code in a matter of seconds, unlocking the door as if they were being invited right in by an invisible host.

And now…

Now he was discovering that Scooter was equally adept with firearms.

Like the Smith & Wesson .48 special he suddenly pulled.

“But I am here. And I’m not letting you destroy my livelihood,” the old man said now, despite the gun in Scooter’s hand.

Craig was pretty sure that the octogenarian’s name had to be Hudson. The sign on the small shop in the valley advertised it as Hudson & Son, Fine Art, Antiques, Memorabilia and Jewelry.

It was the jewelry and antiques they’d come for. Scooter and Quintin were becoming infamous all through the Northeast for knocking off a long string of jewelry and antique stores. They went for family establishments—the type not found in malls. The kind in small towns, where the biggest crimes tended to be speeding or graffiti. They struck, then disappeared, and the insurance agencies were the ones to pay. Easy in, easy out, and no one got hurt, except in the wallet.

Craig had never heard of Scooter or Quintin using a gun.

Then again, he’d never heard of them ripping off a place where someone had remained behind after hours.

But there was a first time for everything. Here, in a little hick town in Massachusetts, they had found the place where someone was still around.

Craig felt ill.

He knew the pair were successful because of Scooter’s talent with electronics, which ensured that they were never caught on videotape. No witness could ever describe their faces, because there never were any witnesses. In short, they had never been seen.

Until now.

“Scooter, it’s Christmas. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Craig said.

Scooter looked at him, shaking his head as he scooped up jewelry and threw it into a bag. “No, sorry, I don’t think so. Even if I wanted to, and I don’t, I don’t think Quintin’s ready to go.”

That was all too obvious, Craig thought, looking over at the other man. Already Craig had figured out that, while Scooter talked as if he called the shots, it was Quintin who really ran the operation. And Quintin wasn’t all that fond of Craig, so he knew he had to be careful.

“There’s got to be a safe, so open it, pops,” Quintin was saying now.

“Sir, please,” Craig said politely to Mr. Hudson, silently begging the old man to back down and do as he was told. “Open the safe.”

“No.”

“I’ll shoot you, you old fart, and don’t think I won’t,” Scooter told him.

“Do it,” the old man said.

“Come on, guys. There’s a storm coming in, and we need to get the hell out of here before it does,” Craig said. “Why don’t we just leave the old guy alone and get out of here?”

“Told you that the kid was a mistake,” Quintin said disgustedly to Scooter. Quintin was a big man, but not fat. He was pure muscle, with small dark eyes, a bald head and the shoulders of an orangutan. He was oddly fanatic in his dress. He liked to be neat, and he was fond of designer clothing. He was in his forties, and despite his occupation, he was quite capable of speaking and appearing like a gentleman.

Scooter was just the opposite: thin as a rail. He had a wiry strength, though. Sandy hair worn a little too long, and eyes that were so pale a blue they were almost colorless. Scooter was somewhere in his mid-thirties, and Craig was becoming more and more convinced that he had some kind of learning disability. He often sounded totally vicious, but at other times his voice held the awe of a child, and he was sometimes slow.

Craig was the youngest of their trio and the newcomer. He wondered just how odd he looked, joined up with the two of them. At twenty-five, he considered himself in good shape, but, of course, the life he’d chosen demanded that he be fit. Bitterness at the past had made him work hard. He was blue-eyed and blond, like the boy next door. Quintin had liked that about him. What Quintin didn’t like about him, Craig had never quite figured out.

As they all stood there, at something of an impasse, the store was suddenly cast into pitch-darkness as a loud crack announced the splitting of a nearby power pole.

“Nobody move,” Scooter snapped.

A backup generator kicked in almost immediately, and they were bathed in a soft, slightly reddish light. In those few seconds, though, the old man had tried to hit the alarm. Craig could read the truth in his eyes and in the nervous energy that made him shake just slightly. Scooter saw it, too.

“You stupid old fool,” Scooter said softly.

“The power was out,” Craig said quickly. “The alarm was dead.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Scooter said. “Open the safe. Now!”

But old man Hudson seemed totally indifferent to his own impending doom. He even smiled. “I don’t care if you shoot me.”

“Just open the safe, sir. What can possibly be in there that’s worth your life?” Craig asked.

Quintin looked at him contemptuously.

“Look, you old fool,” Quintin said to Hudson, “He won’t just shoot you, he’ll make you hurt. He’ll shoot your kneecaps, and then he’ll shoot your teeny-weeny little pecker. Now open the safe!”

“You must have insurance,” Craig pointed out reasonably. He was stunned at Quintin’s viciousness. Not that he knew the man well. This was actually his first real job with Scooter and Quintin. Before, he had been trying to pass muster. When he’d been taken along tonight, he’d thought he’d been cleared. And he had been—by Scooter. But Quintin was hard.

And Quintin didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him.

Craig knew they’d worked with another guy before, who hadn’t been arrested, and hadn’t been found dead. He had just disappeared. And that was how Craig had gotten in.

Well, he’d wanted in, and he’d gotten what he wanted, Craig thought, and swore silently to himself. This wasn’t the way it should have gone. And now he was going to have to do something about that.

Scooter still looked ready to shoot. The situation was rapidly turning violent.

Craig reached nonchalantly behind his back for the Glock he carried tucked into his waistband. Before he could produce it, Quintin slammed him on the shoulder. “You’ve got no bullets, buddy,” he said softly.

Craig frowned fiercely, staring at him.

Quintin stared back, dark eyes cool and assessing. “Were you planning to shoot the old man—or one of us?” he asked. “I took away your bullets, friend.”

“Why’d you do that?” Scooter demanded.

“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t trust him not to shoot one of us,” Quintin said, then turned back to Hudson. “Come on, asshole. It’s now or never.”

“You’re the asshole, Quintin,” Craig said. Damn it, he thought. What was he going to do without any bullets?

Finally the old man turned and started turning the dial on the safe. As soon as it opened, he stepped away, staring off into the distance, as if none of it meant anything to him anymore.

Craig felt a sudden deep, overwhelming surge of sadness. What the hell was this old man doing alone on Christmas Eve? Where was the son listed on the sign? Where was the rest of his family?

Was this really the sum of life? Men wanted sons. Sons wanted the keys to the car. Sure, Dad, the son said. I’ll help with the business. And then he found something else that interested him more and was gone, until one day Dad was old. And alone.

“Bag it up,” Scooter demanded, pointing to the bills and jewelry in the safe. “Bag it all up.”

“You know you’re not going anywhere, right?” the old man asked calmly.

“Wrong, pops. We’re going straight to New York City. Hiding in plain sight,” Scooter said happily.

Craig felt his stomach drop. Scooter had just told the old man their plans, not to mention that Hudson had seen their faces. Craig could practically see the death warrant in his mind.

“A nor’easter is coming in,” the old man said, sounding so casual. “Hasn’t been one this bad in years, I can tell you.”

The weather was turning; Craig could feel it. The storm that should have gone north of them had veered south instead, he thought, then went back to wondering why Hudson was at work and alone on Christmas Eve.

“Right. Like I’m afraid of a little snow.” Scooter sniffed.

Did the old man have a cell phone? Craig wondered. He had lied before. He was certain the man had hit his alarm already, but there were no sirens drawing near, no sign of help.

Now, with no indication of panic or hurry, the man started filling the bag Scooter handed him with bills and jewelry.

“We got it all. Let’s go,” Craig said.

“You go,” Quintin said. “Get in the driver’s seat and wait for us. And don’t fuck up.”

“Let’s all get the hell out of here,” Craig said. “Come on. You’ve got what you came for.”

“Wuss.” Quintin sniffed. “Or worse.”

“What do you mean, worse?” Scooter asked.

“Cop.”

“I’m no cop. I just don’t want to do life over a couple of lousy bracelets,” Craig said, but he felt a bead of sweat on his upper lip. Quintin was one scary SOB. His eyes were like glass. No emotion, empathy or remorse lay anywhere behind that stare.

“The old guy’s seen our faces, and thanks to Scooter—” he shot the man a scathing glance “—he knows where we’re going,” Quintin said.

“And he’s probably legally blind and totally deaf,” Craig argued.

“I’m not taking that chance,” Quintin said harshly.

“And I’m not going to be party to murder,” Craig said and turned to appeal to the other man. “Scooter, you’re an idiot if you listen to this thug,” he said. “We’ll all get locked away forever for murder, and I’m not as old as you guys. I don’t want to spend the next fifty years without a woman.”

Quintin started to laugh. “Don’t worry about it, kid. They lock up people like Martha Stewart. Killers, hell, they get to walk away free. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Craig…we gotta do what Quintin says,” Scooter insisted.

“Even if what he says is stupid?” Craig asked.

“Fuck you,” Quintin said, casually pulling out a gun. “Keep talking like that and you won’t have to worry about jail.”

Craig assessed his situation. No question it was dire. He was probably in the best shape of his life, and he was the youngest of the three of them. In a fair fight, he could probably take out Quintin, no matter that the man was an ape. But there were two of them. And it wasn’t going to be a fair fight. Because they had guns. With bullets.

There would never be a fair fight with Quintin.

He turned to plead with Scooter again, but he was too late. Quintin, moving faster than Craig would have thought possible for a man his size, cracked Craig on the head with the butt of his gun.

Craig literally saw stars, and then the world went black.

As he sank to the ground, he heard the deafening sound of an explosion.

The blast of a gun…

He’d screwed up.

What a great, last thought to have—and on Christmas Eve.

As he sank into unconsciousness, he was certain he could hear the familiar refrain of a Christmas carol.

Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.

ONE

The stereo was on, playing songs of Christmas cheer. Skyler O’Boyle took a moment to listen to a woman with a high, clear voice who was singing, “Sleigh bells ring, are you lis’nin’…”

Then, even over the music and from her place in the kitchen, she heard the yelling.

“I said hold it. Hold the tree!”

Skyler winced.

Christmas. Home for the holidays, merry, merry, ho, ho, ho, family love, world peace.

In her family? Yeah, right.

The expected answer came, and the voice was just as loud. “I am holding it,” her eldest son insisted.

“Straight, dammit, Frazier. Hold it straight,” her husband, David, snapped irritably.

In her mind’s eye, Skyler could see them, David on the floor, trying to wedge the tree into the stand, and Frazier, standing, trying to hold the tree straight. That was what happened when you decided “home for the holidays” meant everyone gathering in the old family house out in the country. It meant throwing everything together at the last possible moment, because everyone had to juggle their school and work schedules with their holiday vacation.

“The frigging needles are poking my eyes. This is the best I can do,” Frazier complained in what sounded suspiciously like a growl.

His tone was sure to aggravate his father, she thought.

Some people got Christmas cheer; she got David and Frazier fighting over the tree.

Where the hell had the spirit of the season gone, at least in her family? Actually, if she wanted to get philosophical, where had the spirit of the season gone in a large part of the known world? There were no real Norman Rockwell paintings. People walked by the Salvation Army volunteers without a glance; it seemed as if the only reason anyone put money in the kettle was that they were burdened by so much change that it was actually too heavy for comfort. Then they beat each other up over the latest electronic toy to hit the market.

“It’s nowhere near straight,” David roared.

“Put up your own fucking tree, then,” Frazier shouted.

“Son of a bitch…” David swore.

“…walkin’ in a winter wonderland.”

Please, God, Skyler prayed silently, don’t let my husband and my son come to blows on Christmas Eve.

“Hey, Kat, you there?”

Great, Skyler thought. Now David was getting their daughter involved.

“Yeah, Dad, I’m here. But I can’t hold that tree any straighter. And I hope Brenda didn’t hear you two yelling,” Kat said.

Skyler headed out toward the living room, ready to head off a major family disaster, and paused just out of sight in the hall.

Had she been wrong? Should she have told her son he shouldn’t bring Brenda home for the holidays? He’d turned twenty-two. He could have told her that he wasn’t coming home, in that case, and was going to spend the holidays with Brenda’s family. And then she would have been without her first-born child. Of course, that was going to happen somewhere along the line anyway; that was life. With the kids getting older, it was already hard to get the entire family together.

“Oh, so now I have to worry—in my own house—about offending the girl who came here to sleep with my son?” David complained.

David wasn’t a bad man, Skyler thought. He wasn’t even a bad father. But he had different ideas about what was proper and what wasn’t. They had been children themselves, really, when they had gotten married. She had been eighteen, and he had been nineteen. But even as desperately in love as they had been, there was no way either of them could have told their parents that they were going to live together.

Current mores might be much wiser, she reflected. Most of her generation seemed to be divorced.

“What century are you living in, Dad?” Frazier demanded. Apparently his train of thought was running alongside hers. “There’s nothing wrong with Brenda staying in my room. It’s not as if we don’t sleep together back at school. You should trust my judgment. And don’t go getting all ‘I’m so respectable, this girl better be golden.’ We’re not exactly royalty, Dad. We own a bar,” he finished dryly.

“We own a pub, a fine family place,” David snapped back irritably. “And what’s that supposed to mean, anyway? That pub is paying for college for both you and your sister.”

“I’m just saying that some people wouldn’t consider owning a bar the height of morality.”

“Morality?” David exploded. “We’ve never once been cited for underage drinking, and we’re known across the country for bringing the best in Celtic music to the States.”

“Dad, it’s all right,” Kat said soothingly. “And you…shut the hell up,” she said, and elbowed her brother in the ribs. “Both of you—play nice.”

Skyler held her breath as Frazier walked away and headed upstairs, probably to make sure his girlfriend hadn’t heard her name evoked in the family fight.

It was probably best. Her husband and son were always at each other’s throats, it seemed, while Kat was the family peacemaker, who could ease the toughest situation. She’d gone through her own period of teenage rebellion on the way to becoming an adult, and getting along with her had been hell for a while. But that was over, and now Kat was like Skyler’s miracle of optimism, beautiful and sweet. A dove of peace.

She wanted to think that she was a dove of peace herself, but she wasn’t and she knew it.

She was just a chicken. A chicken who hated harsh tones and the sounds of disagreement. Sometimes she was even a lying chicken, for the sake of keeping the peace.

But this was Christmas. She had to say something to David. He really shouldn’t be using that tone—not here, not now and not with Frazier.

Frazier just…He just wasn’t a child anymore. He didn’t always act like an adult, but that didn’t make him a child. David was far too quick to judge and to judge harshly, while she was too quick to let anything go, all for the sake of peace. There had been hundreds of times through the years when she should have stepped in, put her foot down. She’d failed. So how could she blame others now for doing what she’d always allowed them to do?

At last she stepped out of the shadows of the hallway and looked at the tree. “It’s lovely,” she said.

“It’s crooked,” David told her, his mouth set in a hard line.

“It’s fine,” she insisted softly.

“That’s what I say, Mom,” Kat said. She was twenty-two, as well, their second-born child and Frazier’s twin. She walked over to Skyler and set an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I’ll get going on the lights.”

“I’ll get the lights up,” David said. “You can take it from there.”

Skyler looked at her daughter. Kat could still show her temper on occasion, but she could stand against her father with less friction than Frazier. Maybe the problem with David and Frazier was a testosterone thing, like in a pride of lions. There was only room for one alpha male.

But this was Christmas. Couldn’t they all get along? At least on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day? Other people counted their blessings; shouldn’t they do the same? They had three beautiful, healthy children: Jamie, their youngest son, was sixteen, and then there were the twins. None of them had ever been in serious trouble—just that one prank of Jamie’s, and that should be enough for anyone, shouldn’t it?

“Mom,” Kat said, “I’ll decorate. Anyone who wants to can just pitch in.”

David was already struggling with the lights, but he paused to look at Skyler for a moment. He still had the powerful look of a young man. His hair was thick and dark, with just a few strands of what she privately felt were a very dignified gray. She had been the one to pass on the rich red hair to her children, but the emerald-gold eyes that were so bewitching on Kat had come from her father.

Where have the years gone? she wondered, looking at him. He was still a good-looking and interesting man, but it was easy to forget that sometimes. And sometimes it was easy to wonder if being married wasn’t more a habit than a commitment of the heart.

Skyler winced. She loved her family. Desperately.

Too desperately?

David cursed beneath his breath, then exploded. “They can put a man on the moon, but they can’t invent Christmas lights that don’t tangle and make you check every freaking bulb.”

“Dad, they do make lights where the whole string doesn’t go if one bulb is blown. Our lights are just old,” Kat explained patiently.

Skyler looked at her daughter, feeling a rush of emotion that threatened to become tears. She loved her children equally, but at this moment Kat seemed exceptionally precious. She was stunning, of course, with her long auburn hair. Tall and slim—though, like many young women, she was convinced she needed to take off ten pounds. Those eyes like gold-flecked emeralds. And she had an amazing head on her shoulders.

“Yeah, well…if we stayed in Boston and prepared for Christmas…” David muttered.

Not fair, she thought. He was the one who had found this place years ago and he’d fallen in love with it first. Once upon a time, they had come here often. The kids had loved to leave the city and drive the two hours out to the country. They never left the state, but they went from the sea to the mountains. And everyone loved it.

She realized why she had wanted to come here so badly. It was a way to keep her family around her. It was a way to make sure that if her son and his father got into a fight over the Christmas turkey, Frazier couldn’t just get up and drive off to a friend’s house. Was it wrong to cling so desperately to her children and her dream of family?

“Mom, need any help in the kitchen?” Kat asked. It was clearly going to be a while until the lights were up and she could start on the ornaments.

Skyler shook her head. “Actually, I’m fine. Everything is more or less ready. We’re going traditional Irish tonight—corned beef, bacon, cabbage and potatoes, and it’s all in one pot. We can eat soon. Tomorrow we’ll have turkey.”

“Want me to set the table while Dad argues with the lights?” Kat asked.

Skyler grinned. “See if you can help him argue with the lights, and I’ll set the table. We’ll just eat in the kitchen, where it’s warm and cozy.”

Kat smiled at her mother.

Skyler couldn’t have asked for a better daughter, she thought as she made her way back to the kitchen. They shared clothes and confidences, and she had learned not to worry every time her daughter drove away.

With her daughter here…

Skyler felt as if there were a chance for a Norman Rockwell Christmas after all.

Frazier came running down the stairs, followed by Brenda. They were an attractive couple, she had to admit. He was so tall, muscled without being bulky, with hair a deeper shade of red than his sister’s. And he, too, had his father’s eyes. Next to him, Brenda was tiny, delicate. And blond.

“Way too perfect,” Kat had told her mother teasingly, since she’d met Brenda first.

“You might want to turn on the TV and check the weather update,” Frazier said.

“That storm is getting worse,” Brenda added shyly.

“Really?” Skyler said, offering Brenda what she hoped was a welcoming smile. Not only was Brenda tiny and blond, her brilliant blue eyes made her look like a true little snow princess. Skyler had been relieved to learn that she was twenty-one. When she’d first met the young woman, she’d been terrified that Frazier had fallen for a teenager, but Brenda simply looked young because she was so petite. She tended to be shy, but she certainly seemed very sweet.

Okay, it would be nice if she talked a bit more to someone in the house other than Frazier, but really, what wasn’t to like about her?

David was too entangled in the lights to find the remote. Skyler saw it on a chair and flicked the TV on. A serious-looking anchorman was delivering a warning.

“We’re looking at major power outages, and despite the fact that it’s Christmas Eve, because the weather is already turning vicious, we suggest that anyone who may have medical or other difficulties in the event of a power loss get to a hospital or a shelter now. And everyone should be prepared, with candles and flashlights within reach.”

“Ah-ha!” David cried, and they all turned to stare at him.

He shrugged weakly. “Sorry. I untangled the lights.”

“Let’s get ’em up, and then let’s eat,” Skyler suggested cheerfully. “With luck we can finish before the power blows, and if it does, we can play Scrabble by candlelight or something.”

“Wretched weather,” Kat muttered, her attention turning back to the television. “Mom, Dad, why didn’t we buy a house on a Caribbean island?”

“We couldn’t afford a house on a Caribbean island,” David said, but he sounded a lot more cheerful than he had earlier. He hesitated, then said, “Frazier, will you grab that end?”

Frazier hesitated, as well, before saying, “Sure, Dad.”

“Good. You two deal with the lights, and I’ll get the food on the table,” Skyler said.

“Let’s get Mister Sixteen and Rebellious down here, too, huh?” Kat said. “He can give us a hand.”

“Good idea, and would you get Uncle Paddy, too?”

There was a short silence after she spoke. Perhaps she’d even imagined it, she thought.

David wasn’t thrilled about her uncle being there, she knew, and she was suddenly thankful that they’d both been born the children of Irish immigrants. He would never expect her to actually turn away a relative, even if he felt that Paddy was a drunk who deserved whatever he was suffering now. Which wasn’t really fair, she thought, but David was entitled to his opinion.

Often enough, Uncle Paddy was the real Irish entertainment at the pub. In his own way, of course.

Kat sprang to life, dispelling whatever awkwardness there might have been. She grinned and ran halfway up the stairs, then called, “Jamie! Jamie O’Boyle! Get your delinquent ass down here on the double. Uncle Paddy…dinner.”

“I could have yelled myself,” Skyler said.

“But you’d never have used such poetic language,” Kat said, and even David laughed.

The first thing Craig realized when he came to was that his head was killing him.

Quintin packed one hell of a wallop.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, didn’t know how far they had come. All he knew was that even from where he lay, tossed into the backseat of their stolen vehicle, when he first cracked his eyes open it looked like the whole world had turned white.

Impossible.

He closed his eyes again, waited a long moment, then reopened them. The world was still white. It was snow, and not just snow, but fiercely blowing snow. Hell. It was a nor’easter and a mean one. A blizzard.

He ached all over and wondered if anything in his body was broken.

And what about the old man they had robbed?

His stomach tightened painfully when he caught sight of a familiar stand of trees and realized he knew exactly where they were. For a moment, memories filled his mind and drove away the pain, and then every muscle in his body tensed in an effort at self-preservation, as the car suddenly spun and came to a violent halt in a snowdrift.

“Asshole!” Quintin shouted from the front seat.

“You’re the asshole,” Scooter returned savagely. “You try driving in this shit.”

“Doesn’t matter now. We’re stuck. We’ll have to get out and walk.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Scooter protested.

“No, we’re not. There’s a house right up there,” Quintin snapped, pointing. “I can see the lights in the windows.”

“What? We’re going to drop in for Christmas dinner?” Scooter demanded angrily.

“It’s still Christmas Eve,” Quintin said. “The season of peace and goodwill toward men.”

“Fine. We’re going to crash somebody’s Christmas Eve dinner?” Scooter asked, sounding doubtful, even disbelieving, and thoroughly uneasy.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Quintin said.

Craig’s head was still in agony. Despite that, he felt a terrible sense of dread. Inwardly, he cringed, his mind screaming.

He knew that house. He had dropped by often in a different time.

In a different life.

He remembered it so well: set on a little hill, a beautiful house, comfortable and warm, a place where a family—a real family—gathered and cooked and celebrated the holidays.

How could they have settled on that house? How could the fates be that unfair? It wasn’t even right on the road, for God’s sake; they should never even have known it was there as they drove past in the storm.

“We’ve got to get away from here. Far away,” Scooter argued.

Good thought, Craig approved silently.

“Far away?” Quintin mocked. “You’re out of your mind. Just how far do you think we can get in this weather, without a car—seeing as someone drove ours into a snowdrift? We need a place to stay. Are you insane? Can’t you see? We’re not going to get anywhere tonight.”

Scooter was silent for a moment, then said, “We shouldn’t see people tonight.”

“Don’t you mean people shouldn’t see us?” Quintin asked. He laughed. “Like it will make a difference. Whatever we have to do, we’ll do.”

In the back, eyes shut again as he pretended he was still unconscious, Craig shuddered inwardly and considered his options. Depending on how he looked at things, they went from few to nonexistent.

Sorrow ripped through him at the thought of the old man they had left behind, followed by a fresh onslaught of dread.

He prayed in silence, trying desperately to think of a way out and cursing fate for his present situation.

How the hell had he ended up here? And tonight of all nights?

“Ah, me poor bones,” Uncle Paddy moaned when Kat went up to repeat the news that dinner was ready, although he looked quite comfortable, reclining against a stack of pillows on the very nice daybed that sat near the radiator in the guest room. He had been happily watching television, and he’d apparently gotten her mother to bring him up some tea and cookies earlier. She suspected he hadn’t been in a speck of pain until she’d knocked briefly and opened the door to his room.

She stared at him, then set her hands on her hips and slipped into an echo of his accent. “Your old bones are just fine, Uncle Patrick. It’s no sympathy you’ll be getting tonight.”

Her uncle looked at her indignantly—a look he’d mastered, she thought.

“A few drops of whiskey would be makin’ ’em a whole lot better, me fine lass.”

“Maybe later.”

“I’ve got to be getting down the stairs,” he said.

“Uncle Paddy, even I know it’s easier to get down a flight of stairs before taking a shot of whiskey,” Jamie said from behind Kat, making her start in surprise. So her little brother had finally left the haven of his room, she thought. He was only sixteen, but already a good three inches taller than she was. He even had an inch on Frazier these days. He was thin, with a lean, intelligent face. He worried that he didn’t look tough enough, but he wasn’t exactly planning to be a boxer. He was a musician, something that came easily enough in their family. He loved his guitar, and when he played a violin, grown men had been known to weep.

It occurred to her that she hadn’t spent a lot of time with him in the last year, and this was a time in his life when he could use some sane guidance from his older siblings. She remembered being sixteen all too well.

The opposite sex. Peer pressure. Drugs. Cigarettes.

Once, she’d thought of him almost as her own baby. Even though there were only six years between them, she’d been old enough to help out when he’d been born. Then again, they hadn’t grown up in the usual household. Their home was by Boston Common, the pub closer to the wharf, and they’d all spent plenty of time in that pub. When she’d been a teenager, her friends had enjoyed the mistaken belief that she could supply liquor for whatever party they were planning.

She could still remember the pressure, and the pain of finding out that some of her so-called friends lost all interest in her when she wouldn’t go along with their illegal plans. It wasn’t until she’d had her heart seriously broken her first year of college that she’d learned to depend on herself for her own happiness. That she could be depressed and work in her parents’ pub all her life or she could create her own dreams.

Age and experience. She had both, she decided, at the grand age of twenty-two.

She smiled at how self-righteous she sounded in her own mind. Well, maybe she was, but she knew she was never going to make the mistakes her parents had made. She wasn’t going to live her life entirely for others. Oh, she meant to have children. And it looked as if Uncle Paddy was around to stay. But she was never going to torture herself over her husband’s temper or the bickering that went on around her.

To hell with them all; that would be her motto. God could sort them out later.

But, for the moment, she realized, she was concerned about Jamie—and the fact he had been so quick to lock himself away. What had he been up to?

She knew, despite her mother’s determination to keep certain situations private between herself and a particular child, that Jamie had gotten himself into some minor trouble up here last year. Luckily for him, a sheriff’s deputy had just come to the house and commented on how easily calls could be traced these days.

“You’re behaving, right?” she said to him now.

He’d been in his room since they’d gotten there. Of course, he’d made no secret of the fact that he thought she and Frazier should deal with their father on holidays, seeing as the two of them got to escape back to college after a few days, while he had to deal with his parents on a daily basis.

Jamie just grinned and nodded toward Uncle Paddy, who had taken offense at Jamie’s last comment and was staring at his youngest nephew with his head held high in indignation.

“At my age, a bit of whiskey is medicinal,” he announced.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jamie said irreverently. “But the whiskey is downstairs. So grab your cane, and we’ll be your escort.”

Kat grinned. Maybe this Christmas would be okay after all, despite its somewhat rocky start.

“Come on, Uncle Paddy. You’re not that old, so move it,” Jamie said.

“There is simply no respect for seniors in this house,” Paddy said. “The abuse your poor wee mother takes…” He shook his head.

“My mother is neither poor nor wee,” Kat retorted. “Now come on. It’s Christmas, and we’re going to have fun and be happy.”

“Yes, dammit. Whether we like it or not,” Jamie agreed.

Kat reached for Paddy’s arm. With a groan, he rose. “Ah, me old bones.”

“Your old palate can have a wee dram the minute we get you down the stairs,” Jamie assured him.

Paddy arched a brow. “Are ye joinin’ me then, lad?”

“Sure, it’s Christmas.”

“Ye’re not of an age.”

“Like you were?” Jamie said, rolling his eyes.

“This is America.”

“So?” Jamie said. “My parents run a bar. It’s not like I haven’t had a shot now and then.”

Paddy let out an oath. Kat knew what it was because she’d been told as a child never to learn Gaelic from Uncle Paddy. Luckily, not many people spoke Gaelic, so they seldom knew what he was saying when he was out and about and swearing at the world.

Now he waved a hand at them and headed for the stairs under his own power. “The young. No respect,” he muttered, then raised his cane and shook it at them.

They both laughed and followed him downstairs.

Skyler had all but the last of the food on the table when Uncle Paddy entered the kitchen and headed straight for the liquor cabinet.

“Your beer’s on the table,” she said, her tone slightly sharp. She realized that she was looking over her shoulder, hoping that David hadn’t seen Paddy heading straight for the whiskey.

“I’ll take a beer, too,” Jamie said cheerfully, coming in behind Paddy.

“Jamie…” she said warningly.

“It’s better than the hard stuff, right?” Jamie asked.

“Actually, I think a beer and a shot have about the same alcohol content,” Kat said, following her brother into the kitchen.

“What, now our son is heading straight for the liquor, too?” David demanded harshly from behind Kat.

His words tightened the knot of tension already forming between Skyler’s shoulder blades as she remembered the “incident” with Jamie.

“Jeez, Dad, would you lighten up?” Jamie demanded.

“Great. I knew we should have gone to your family,” Frazier murmured to Brenda, as they walked into the middle of the argument.

Take control, Skyler told herself angrily. All your life, you let things go, trying to maintain the peace. Now for once in your life, do something. “David, Jamie, please,” she said. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“We own a bar,” Jamie said. “What’s the big deal?”

“Stop it, Jamie. Stop it now,” she said firmly, wondering why family gatherings had to be such a nightmare.

“Pub,” David corrected irritably. “And that’s no reason for my kids to be drunks, too.”

“Ye’d be referring to me, eh?” Paddy demanded.

Take control, Skyler ordered herself. And finally spoke up. “Uncle Paddy, you have a drinking problem, and you know it. Jamie, you may have a beer. One.” She stared at her husband. “I’d rather he drink with us than away from us, if he’s going to drink. And he is going to drink. So…sit down. Kat, Frazier, Brenda, what would you like to drink?”

“Just water for me,” Brenda said hurriedly.

Of course someone so slim and tiny wouldn’t consume a liquid with calories, Skyler thought. Then again, at least the girl had answered on her own. She had been so quiet since her arrival.

She was shy. Not like this group.

“Frazier, what will you have?”

“I’ll have a beer—if Dad doesn’t think it will turn me into an alcoholic.”

David stared at his older son, still irritated.

“Don’t be silly. Your father knows that you don’t abuse alcohol.”

“Yeah. Not like some of those old boozehounds at the pub,” Frazier said.

“Boozehounds? Those fine fellows put food on your plate,” Paddy said.

“Including the ones who fall off their bar stools?” Frazier asked.

“We don’t serve drunks,” David snapped.

“Dad’s right,” Kat said, grinning, “We reserve the right not to serve people who are falling off the bar stools.”

“Even when they’re our relatives,” Jamie chimed in.

“Jamie…” Skyler cautioned with a sigh. So much for taking control. David was clearly taking every word seriously, which did not bode well for a pleasant meal.

“Mom, what would you like to drink?” Kat asked.

Skyler hesitated, shaking her head. “Hell. Just give me the whole bottle of whiskey.”

To her amazement, there was silence.

Then laughter.

Even David’s lips twitched.

“Come on, guys, let’s all behave,” Kat said. “We’re driving Mom to drink.”

“Let’s eat,” Skyler said with forced cheer. “Sit down already.”

“You want us anywhere in particular?” Kat asked, walking up behind her mother and hugging her.

“In a chair at the table, that’s all,” she said, and gave her daughter a little squeeze in return.

“We’re short a place setting,” Kat noted.

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are. Count,” Kat said.

“There are six place settings, and five of us and…Brenda and Paddy,” Skyler said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get another plate.”

“I’ll go find a chair,” Kat said. “I think there’s an extra in the den.”

“I’m so sorry, guys,” Skyler said as Kat hurried out.

“That’s okay, Mom. You can’t count, but we love you anyway,” Frazier teased, smiling at her.

She smiled back. “And Dad?”

His smiled wavered for a moment. “We love Dad, too, of course. Although I think he can count.”

“Cute,” Skyler said. “Brenda, please sit down and just ignore my family.”

Uncle Paddy was staring at her questioningly, and Brenda looked acutely uncomfortable. How the hell had she miscounted? She just hadn’t been thinking clearly. She’d been too busy listening in on other people’s conversations. Worrying.

She didn’t want arguing. She wanted peace and the whole Norman Rockwell picture.

“I’m sorry for intruding on your family Christmas—” Brenda began.

“Don’t be silly, you’re not intruding in the least, and we’re delighted to have you. I’m just getting absentminded in my old age,” Skyler said.

“It’s all those years in a bar,” Frazier teased.

“Pub,” David said.

“Beer fumes,” Jamie put in.

David groaned exaggeratedly. “All right, enough with the pub and the beer. Brenda, you are entirely welcome here. Please sit down.”

“Please,” Skyler echoed. “Jamie likes to say that I have adult attention deficiency disorder. Personally, I think it comes from my children,” she explained, staring firmly from one of her sons to the other. “Let’s all sit and enjoy our dinner.”

Suddenly the doorbell rang.

Skyler looked at her husband, who looked back at her, his eyebrows arching questioningly. “You have more company coming?” he asked. His tone, at least, was light. “Someone’s long-lost relative? Stray friend?”

She glared at him fiercely. “No.”

“Why would anyone be traveling in this weather?” Brenda mused.

So she did speak without being spoken to, Skyler thought, then wanted to kick herself for the unkind thought. But the girl was so quiet most of the time. Probably, her family didn’t fight all the time, and she just felt uncomfortable, intimidated.

“Someone might have had an accident, Dad,” Frazier suggested.

“If someone is hurt or stranded, of course they can come in,” Skyler said quickly.

“What idiot would be out in this weather?” David asked.

The bell sounded again.

“We could just answer the blasted thing and find out what’s going on,” Paddy said.

“I’ll get it,” Jamie said.

“No. I’ll get it,” David said firmly. “You all just sit.”

But no one sat.

David led, Skyler close behind him, everyone else behind her. The swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room, which sat to the one side of the entry, thumped as one person after another pushed it on the way through.

The bell rang again.

“Hurry, someone might be freezing out there,” Skyler said.

And yet, even as she spoke, she felt a strange sense of unease.

Somehow Norman Rockwell seemed to be slipping away.

And she—who took in any stray puppy, who always helped the down and out, animal or human—didn’t want David to open the door.

TWO

The chair in the den lost a leg the minute Kat picked it up. She let out a groan of frustration and tried to put it back on.

It would go back on, but it wouldn’t stay, because a crucial screw seemed to be missing. She looked around, getting down on hands and knees to see if it had rolled into a corner somewhere. No luck.

No problem. There was a chair at the desk up in her room, and she knew it was fine, because she had been sitting in it earlier while she was online.

She was upstairs when she heard the doorbell ring. Curious, she walked to the window and looked out. She saw a car stuck nose-first in a snowdrift, barely off the road, down where the slope of their yard began.

The bell rang again, and two men backed out from beneath the porch roof and stared up at the house. Strangers. She could barely see them; the wind was really blowing the snow around, and they were bundled up in coats, scarves and hats, but something about their movement made her think that they were in their thirties—late twenties to forty, tops, at any rate.

She frowned, watching as they moved back out of sight and the bell rang for a third time.

Not at all sure why, she didn’t grab the chair and run down the stairs. Instead, she found herself walking quietly out to the landing, where she stood in the shadows, looking and listening.

“We know it’s Christmas Eve,” one man was saying.

“And we’re so sorry,” said the second.

“But we ran off the road and we need help,” said the first.

“A dog shouldn’t be out on a night like this,” said the second.

“We were just about to sit down to dinner.” Her father’s voice, and he sounded suspicious. Good.

“Dinner,” the first man repeated.

Peering carefully over the banister, still strangely unwilling to give herself away, Kat tried to get a look at the men. One was bulky and well-dressed, and shorter than her father and Frazier by a few inches; since they were about six-one to Jamie’s six-two, that made the stranger about six feet even.

The other man, the one who had spoken first, was leaner. He had the look of…a sidekick? Odd thought, but that was exactly the word that occurred to her. He needed a haircut, and his coat was missing several buttons. Even his knit cap looked as if it had seen better days.

When the heavier man took off his hat, he was bald—clean-shaven bald. He had thick dark brows, and eyes that were set too close together.

Beady eyes, Kat thought, then chided herself for watching too much C.S.I.

“Good heavens, come in and get out of the cold,” her mother told the pair.

Her mother would have taken in Genghis Khan, Kat thought, although she didn’t sound entirely happy about extra guests at the moment. Maybe because it was Christmas Eve, she decided. But really, what choice was there? The two men could hardly go anywhere else.

But what the hell were they doing out to begin with? Maybe they didn’t live here near the mountains, but anyone who lived anywhere in New England knew how treacherous the weather could become in a matter of hours, and the TV and radio stations had been talking nonstop about this storm for two days before it even got here. It had been touch and go whether the family even made it up here in time.

“Thank you, ma’am, and bless you,” the tall man said, holding out his hand. “I’m William Blane, but folks call me Scooter. And this is my associate, Mr. Quintin Lark.”

“How do you do, and I, too, thank you,” the stocky man said.

Her father looked at her mother and smiled in solidarity. At that moment, despite the bickering that never seemed to stop, she was reminded of how much she loved her parents. And that she was proud of them. Her father worked hard, doing everything around the pub. He lugged boxes and kept the books, but he could pick up a fiddle or a keyboard and sit in with a band, and he was always willing to pitch in and wash glasses. He managed the kitchen, the bar and the inventory.

And her mother…Her mother had raised three children, working all the while. Like Kat’s dad, her mom could sit in with the band. She had a clear soprano and a gift for the piano. She served drinks and meals, tended bar and always picked up a broom and a dust rag when needed.

Her mother was the key element that truly turned the place from a bar into a pub, Kat decided. She listened. She knew their customers. She knew that Mrs. O’Malley’s cat had produced five kittens and that those kittens were as important to Mrs. O’Malley as Mr. Browne’s new grandson was to him. She knew old man Adair had gotten part of a mortar shell in his calf during the war—World War II, that was—and that as stubborn and sturdy as the old fellow might appear, his leg ached on an hourly basis. Her mother cared about people, perhaps too much. And in her pursuit of constant cheer, she had often sacrificed the truth.

Even now, she was frowning sympathetically. “You say you had an accident? Where? What happened?”

“We didn’t listen to the weather report, I’m afraid,” Quintin said.

“We were listening to a CD, instead of the news,” Scooter said. “We ran off the road just at the edge of your property. I wasn’t even sure we’d make it this far.”

“Not to worry,” Skyler said. “We have plenty of food. Come on into the kitchen.”

“I’ll just get some more chairs,” David said.

“Wasn’t—” Jamie began.

“No,” Skyler said firmly, staring at Jamie. “No…we’ll be fine in the kitchen. We just need more chairs.”

Kat’s jaw dropped. Her mother—her mother—was suspicious.

And pretending that she wasn’t in the house.

“Right,” her father said. “Two more chairs. Jamie, take Quintin and, uh, Scooter into the kitchen. Get them a drink.”

“A shot of whiskey,” Skyler said. “You both need a good shot of whiskey. Just to warm up.” She sounded nervous, Kat thought, though no one who didn’t know her would notice.

“Whiskey sounds great,” Scooter said.

“Let’s all go into the kitchen,” Quintin added, and Kat thought she heard something ominous in his voice.

“I’ve got to get more chairs,” David said.

“No,” Scooter said softly.

It should have been a perfect holiday tableau: a family opening their doors to stranded travelers on a cold and stormy Christmas Eve.

But something just wasn’t right. It was as if the picture was out of focus.

Everyone just stood there awkwardly. And then, subtly, Quintin’s face changed.

Kat could see the way he smiled. It was a slow smile. A scary smile.

“We need to stay together. All of us,” Quintin told them.

Kat felt as if she were staring down at a scene in a play, and someone had forgotten a line.

What in God’s name had tipped everyone off? How had her mother, the soul of trust, figured out—and so quickly—that there was something unsavory about their uninvited guests?

And how had the creep, Quintin, realized that her parents were suspicious?

“This is my house,” David said. “We’re happy to keep you from freezing to death, but you’ll behave by my rules in my house.”

“Can’t, sorry,” Scooter said. He actually looked a little sad.

“Oh? Come on now, we were just about to have dinner, so let’s all honor the spirit of the holiday and sit down together.”

Good acting job, Dad, Kat cheered silently, then realized that it hadn’t made any difference.

Quintin was staring at her mother. “What made you become so mistrustful? Surely you’re not a detective, but…a psychiatrist, perhaps? No matter. Yes, this is your house. But I’m the one with a gun. In fact, my friend Scooter has a gun, too. Neither one of us wants to hurt you, but we’re outnumbered. Thankfully, you seem to be a nice family. A smart family. So I’m sure you’ll see the wisdom of behaving when I tell you that if any one of you gets out of line…Mom here gets it. So the rest of you might be able to take us, but you’d go through the rest of your neat little suburban lives without a mom. So we all stay together,” he said softly. “Can’t take any chances. After all, you might have a gun of your own squirreled away somewhere,” he said, turning to her father.

“Bullshit!”

Her father was a big man—in good shape, as well. He lunged at Quintin, and her brothers, bless them, followed his lead. But Quintin was fast. He pulled his gun before her father got to him.

“Stop now, or Mom is dead!” Quintin roared.

The sound of a bullet blasting ripped through the night, followed by the shattering of glass exploding into a thousand pieces, as Scooter took out a lamp.

“Nobody move,” Quintin said.

Everybody stood still, as ordered. Brenda started to cry.

“Shut up!” Quinton said.

Frazier put his arm around Brenda, drawing her close to him.

Uncle Paddy seemed the least disturbed of all of them. He seemed to be assessing the invaders with remarkably sober eyes.

“No more heroics,” Quintin said. “We’ve given you one chance. Next time, someone dies. Because I’m not going to prison again, ever. I’d rather die first. And if I’m going to die, I’ll happily take someone with me. Understand?”

Her poor father, Kat thought. She had never seen him in so much agony. His whole family was threatened, and he was powerless.

A sense of panic seized Kat, like a wave of cold that washed over her and left her trembling. For a moment the world went black. She fell back against the wall in an effort to remain vertical as she fought the nausea that seemed to grip her stomach with an icy, merciless hand.

She inhaled deeply and tried to think. Despite their threats, she didn’t know if the pair had ever actually murdered anyone. They were probably thieves. On the other hand…

They were armed. And they had introduced themselves, she realized with a further wave of nausea. That could only mean that whether they’d killed before or not, they weren’t planning to leave any witnesses. She shuddered, fear threatening to consume her. She only hoped they hadn’t realized just how much danger they were in.

She fought it. She was the only hope her family had.

“All right, folks, if we’re all calm, we can get through this. I want your cell phones. Now,” Quintin said.

Jamie and Frazier reached into their pockets. As Jamie handed his over, he said, “There’s no service out here now, anyway. We’re lucky to stand on the roof and get service even when there isn’t a storm.”

“You never know. Come on, come on, the rest of the cell phones,” Quintin said.

David immediately produced his from his pocket.

“Mine’s in my purse,” Brenda squeaked.

“And where would that be?”

“Right there—the table by the door,” Frazier said.

“Get it,” Quintin ordered him.

“How about you, Mom? Where’s yours?”

“Don’t you call her Mom,” Jamie warned.

“Jamie…” David said.

“My name is Skyler,” her mother told the men.

“Fine. Skyler, where’s your phone?”

“In the kitchen, charging,” she said.

“And yours, pops?” Quintin asked Paddy as Frazier handed over Brenda’s phone.

“I wouldn’t be havin’ one of those new-fangled things,” Uncle Paddy said.

“Everyone in the entire world has a cell phone,” Quintin said.

“I’d not be the entire world,” Paddy said.

“Watch it, old man,” Quintin warned.

“He really doesn’t have a cell phone,” Frazier interjected.

Quintin eyed him long and hard. “You’re a big kid. Feisty, I imagine, like your dad. Don’t go playing Superman. I do mean it. You do, and someone will die.”

“He’s not going to be Superman,” Skyler said quickly. “None of us will, okay?”

“Just remember this. I will not go back to prison,” Quintin said.

“Let’s eat,” Scooter said cheerfully, and actually gave her father a friendly punch on the shoulder. “So how is the missus in the kitchen? Is she a good cook?”

“It’s all right, David,” Skyler said softly, when he started tensing. She stared at him, her eyes pleading.

David managed to choke out an answer. “She’s a wonderful cook. And you obviously mean what you say, so don’t worry. We’ll cooperate in every way.”

“Bastards,” Uncle Paddy suddenly hissed, thumping his cane for emphasis.

“Paddy, quit banging your cane and shut up,” her mother snapped. “We’ll have no one dying here tonight. Jamie and Frazier, Scooter can accompany you to the family room. Just grab the bar stools—I’ll be happy to sit on one.”

“Me, too,” Brenda chimed in, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

“Quintin, you can join the rest of us in the kitchen.”

Her mother had somehow taken control. Amazing, Kat marveled.

Quintin laughed. “Yes, ma’am. We seem to have ourselves an Irish matriarch here, Scooter. There’s no one fiercer. And she’s a fine cook, we’re told. Good thing, because I’m starving. And freezing.”

“There are sweaters in the hall closet, right over there,” Skyler said, pointing. “Take off your coats. I don’t want you sitting at my table in those filthy coats.”

Mom, be careful! They’ll shoot you for sure, Kat thought, her heart sinking.

But Quintin only laughed again. “All right. You,” he said, indicating Brenda, “get the sweaters, so we can all have dinner.”

He stared at Brenda, who was staring back at him like a doe caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

“Hop to it!” Quintin said, and Brenda did.

“What about Crai—” Scooter began, doffing his coat and accepting one of David’s old sweaters.

“Later,” Quintin said.

“But it’s freezing out,” Scooter said.

“Later, after dinner.”

“But—”

“What happens, happens,” Quintin said.

What the hell are they talking about? Kat wondered. Who or what is “Crai”?

“We’ll put your coats in the mudroom,” Skyler said, and Kat could see that her mother was trembling as she picked up Scooter’s discarded coat and tossed it into the small tiled mudroom off one side of the foyer where they were standing.

“I’ll hang mine, if you don’t mind,” Quintin said, suiting his actions to the words. “Now let’s go. I’m starving.”

He looked up suddenly, and Kat instantly backed even farther into the shadows, her heart thundering. Had he seen her? Apparently not, because he set his hand on Skyler’s shoulder and repeated, “Let’s go.”

“Get your hands off her,” David said.

Quintin seemed surprised, but he only smiled. “Just remember, everyone on good behavior. Everyone. We keep close together, like a good family, and no one gets hurt.”

They left the entry hall and moved into the kitchen, and Kat was left alone with her roiling thoughts.

She felt frozen, paralyzed, but she knew she had to get past that. Her mother had kept them from knowing she was in the house for a reason: so she could save the family.

Or so she could live when the invaders massacred the rest of the family.

No. That wasn’t going to happen. She would find a way to make sure of it.

She prayed silently for strength. What the hell should she do? How was she supposed to get help in the middle of a blizzard?

She couldn’t wait until the weather calmed down, because Quintin and Scooter were waiting for the same thing. Then they would no doubt steal one of the family’s cars and get back on the road.

And before they went on the road…

They would kill her entire family. They hadn’t hidden their faces. They had blithely offered their names. Of course, they might have made up the names they had given, but she didn’t think so. The most likely scenario was that they would have dinner, savor the warmth of the house and then kill her entire family.

She turned and hurried silently down the hall to her room. She tried her cell first, but she wasn’t at all surprised to discover she had no service. She hesitated, then quickly tried the landline. But either the wires were down or their unwelcome visitors had cut the lines.

Think, she commanded herself. There had to be something she could do.

She could run, but where?

Oh God, it was all up to her. And she was in a panic, failing…

She drew a deep breath.

She could not—would not—fail.

She must be in a state of delayed shock, Skyler decided. She should be paralyzed, either entirely mute or screaming, but instead she was talking, moving, almost normally. They all were, thanks to that basic instinct for survival that kicked in no matter how dire the circumstances.

The singer on the CD that had gone on playing in the background moved on to “O Holy Night.” She had wanted peace so badly before but now…

Now she just wanted everyone to live.

“What the hell is that stuff?” Scooter asked, staring at one of the serving dishes.

“Bacon and cabbage, to go with the corned beef,” David said sharply. Bless him, he was actually bristling at the insult to her cooking, despite the circumstances.

“Don’t look like bacon,” Scooter said.

“It’s more like Canadian bacon,” Frazier said. “It’s the Irish tradition to have bacon with the cabbage.”

“Cabbage is worse than bacon,” Scooter said, wrinkling his nose.

“Taste it. All the flavors mix together. It’s good,” Skyler heard herself say as if she were coaxing a five-year-old. “Brenda, would you pass the potatoes, please?”

She could do this. They all could. It was the only way to stay alive. Because if they didn’t stay calm and pull this off…

At least, she prayed, Kat would survive.

As Scooter reluctantly accepted the bowl of cabbage, Skyler dared a glance at David. His jaw was locked, a pulse ticking at his throat. His eyes touched hers, and they were filled with humiliation. He had failed to protect his family. He wanted to do something.

She shook her head. No.

“Hey, you’re right. This shit is good,” Scooter said.

“My mother does not put shit on the table.” Jamie bridled.

There was silence for a moment; then Scooter grinned. “Sorry. It’s just that…been a while since I’ve eaten a family dinner.” He set his fork down suddenly. “I can’t do this.”

“You can’t do what?” Skyler demanded, her heart racing. He couldn’t sit and eat with them when he planned to shoot them all in a few hours?

“Leave it,” Quintin said.

“Come on,” Scooter protested. “The kid could be dead.”

Quintin frowned, then swore in exasperation. “The kid could be a cop.”

“No, he’s not,” Scooter insisted.

“What kid?” Skyler demanded, feeling as if she were about to explode, as if she were choking and stars would burst in front of her eyes before the total darkness of death descended.

Surely they couldn’t mean Kat?

“What kid?” David breathed.

Quintin waved his fork dismissively. “Nothing for you to worry about, buddy.”

Skyler was surprised to see David lean forward intensely. “Haven’t you guys ever been in a blizzard before? If you left someone out there in this, he’ll die. A few years ago, one poor old woman died after the storm. She froze to death just trying to get her mail.”

Scooter looked at Quintin. “The kid is no cop,” he insisted. “I don’t want anyone to die if I can help it.” Then, as if realizing that he was sounding too soft, he added, “But don’t any of you forget we’ve got guns, and we’ll use ’em if we have to.”

“Mom first,” Quintin reminded them very softly, and Skyler lifted her head to stare at him. He laughed suddenly. “Look at the little lioness. You think it would be worse if I threatened one of the children. For you, yes. But for the kids here…You think they’d want to go on living, knowing they got you killed?”

“Ah, it’s all clear to me now,” Paddy said suddenly.

“What’s clear, you old Mick?” Quintin demanded.

“Why, that you were abandoned by y’er blessed mother,” Paddy said.

“I wasn’t abandoned,” Quintin snapped back. “The drunken bitch died. Maybe you should watch it, Mick. You could be next.”

“Speaking of abandoning people…” Skyler cut in. “Have you abandoned someone outside?”

Quintin grinned. “You want us to bring in our buddy and put the odds even more in our favor?”

There was no way she could hide the confusion that filled her when she added that thought to the mix.

“That’s all right. You’re good people,” Quintin said surprisingly.

“I want to get the kid,” Scooter said stubbornly.

“The food will get cold,” Quintin said. “And how do you propose we get him?”

“Those two get him out of the car and carry him in,” Scooter said, indicating David and Frazier. “You sit here with your gun trained on Mom and they won’t make trouble.”

“The wind is blowing like a son of a bitch,” Paddy noted.

“So it is,” Quintin said. “Go get coated up.”

The blow to his head had been bad. Craig groaned, shivering, his teeth chattering. He tried to open his eyes again.

Somehow he managed to sit up so he could get a look at where they were, and his heart sank.

Oh God. He’d hoped it was just the blizzard and the pain confusing him, making him see the familiar where it didn’t exist, but he hadn’t been confused. What he’d seen was all too real.

This was Kat’s family’s country home, the one she always joked was out in the boondocks, where people still knew one another and where they cared.

Kat.

With her music and her laughter. He could remember far too vividly the times they had come up here for weekends when her family was away, the nights they had spent cuddling on the couch, watching old movies, unable to keep their hands off each other.

Casablanca rolled across his mind. He could hear Humphrey Bogart saying, “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.”

Except that Kat O’Boyle hadn’t just walked into his life.

He had plowed into hers.

Maybe it wasn’t the house, he thought, and looked again.

Nope, it was. Painted white and black with detailed Victorian gingerbreading. The porch, the sloping yard…This was the house, all right.

Maybe they weren’t here. But he knew they were. He could see lights in the windows, and in the living room, a Christmas tree strung with colorful lights.

What the hell was the matter with these people? They lived in Boston. Why hadn’t they bought a vacation home somewhere warm? Anywhere but here.

Maybe, he hoped against hope, Kat wasn’t there.

No, Kat never missed Christmas with her family.

He closed his eyes, wishing he couldn’t see the house. When he opened them, he thought about getting out of the car, then decided to give it another second, even though the backseat now seemed as cold as the middle of an iceberg.

Even if something had happened and Kat wasn’t here, her family was inside. He’d never met them, but he felt as if he knew them. Her father, set in his ways. Her twin brother, Frazier, whom he’d at least seen when Kat pointed him out once across campus. Her little brother, Jamie. He’d wanted to meet her family. Even when she had complained about them, it had been with love.

Her parents were just so old-school, she had told him once. They had both been born in the States, but their parents had come over from Ireland, and sometimes it felt as if they had only recently come over themselves. Her father thought Mexican food was weird and sushi would kill her one day. She’d once suggested they hire a country singer at the pub, and her mother had looked at her as if she’d betrayed the nation.

They fought too much, Kat had said, even admitted that they probably should have gotten a divorce.

No, he’d told her. It was great when people believed so strongly in marriage that they made it work no matter what. He’d never told her about the way his parents had gotten divorced. They hadn’t meant to hurt him, of course. They were decent people who’d gotten so caught up in their own pain that he had gotten lost in the shuffle. And then, when time had passed and some of the wounds had healed…

Then everything had really gone to hell.

He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them…

There was a face looking in the window at him.

Kat’s face.

He blinked to banish the hallucination. Then he heard the door open and realized she was real.

“Craig?” she murmured incredulously. “Craig Devon?”

“Kat?” He couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t think clearly, but he knew he had to shake it off.

“Oh my God! What are you doing here? Did they kidnap you or—”

She broke off, staring at him. He steeled himself, feeling his heart freeze and then shatter into little pieces.

“I heard you were in jail,” she said. Her voice had gone as cold as the snow around them.

Jail? He felt like laughing. She didn’t know the half of what had happened.

His choice, of course. The turns his life had taken weren’t the kind a man longed to share with the woman he loved. The woman he longed to have love him in return.

Kat.

So impossible.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

Damn, his head hurt and his tongue was thick, but he needed to speak and speak fast. “What are you doing out here?” he asked her. “Those bastards in your house—”

“I know,” she said coldly.

“So how did you get out—”

“They don’t know about me,” she said.

The world seemed to steady around him. He could see her in the moonlight that glowed softly through the snow. The red fire of her hair was like a silk frame around her face, and though there wasn’t enough illumination for him to really see her eyes, he knew them well. Technically speaking, they were hazel, but the word wasn’t enough to describe the reality. They were green, and they were gold. Sometimes they were the sun, sometimes like emeralds. But tonight they were filled with disappointment, even revulsion.

“They didn’t kidnap you, did they?” she asked.

He struggled to sit. “No. But, Kat—”

He broke off when he heard a sound, and turned to look as the door to the house opened. Scooter was there with two men. Craig squinted. Kat’s older brother and her father, he had to assume. “Kat.” He found the strength to grip her shoulders. “Someone’s coming—one of them. So if they really don’t know about you, you need to get the hell out of here. Do you understand me? Disappear.”

“You’re one of them.”

“No…not exactly. One of them hit me and—”

“One of them hit you?” she interrupted skeptically.

“Yes, and left me out here. Now get the hell out of here!”

The men were coming down the walk. She could see them now, Scooter, her father and Frazier.

“Craig, if you’re with them…”

“Please, Kat, I don’t know what they’ll do. Go for help.”

“Go for help?” she inquired. “I barely made it to the car in this wind. See the way they’re all hunched over against it? Where am I going to go, Craig? How the hell am I going to get help?”

Snowdrifts were everywhere. They were going to see her footprints, he thought, as the wind picked up, howling. Maybe the snow was blowing around enough to hide her footprints.

He roused and took hold of her shoulders again. He could see her eyes. Gold and emerald. His stomach lurched. She’d been the first really good thing in his life, and he had screwed it up. “I’m begging you to get out of here and find help before Scooter sees you.”

“There is no help, Craig.”

“Then hide somewhere.”

“Hide?” she asked indignantly. “They have my family. I can’t just run away and hide. Do you have a gun? If you have one, give it to me, damn it.”

“Kat, I don’t have a gun.”

“But you were with them.”

“Kat, I’m begging you, go!”

“Are you with them or not?”

“Kat, I…”

His head throbbed with pain and humiliation at the look in her eyes. If they caught her…Lord, if they caught her…He opened his eyes and looked up.

She was gone, vanished into the snow.

He prayed for the snow to fall faster, the wind to blow harder, to cover all traces of her escape.

Scooter and the others had nearly reached the car. The door she’d used was still open, and her prints were still obvious. With a desperate burst of strength, he dragged himself out of the car and let himself collapse into the snow, thrashing to cover her tracks, his thoughts tormenting him.

Once upon a time, he had lived in a different world. He’d been in love with a gorgeous redheaded coed. They’d saved money by eating in and watching old movies on television.

Bogie.

Bergman.

Casablanca.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

Run, Kat, run.

THREE

Everyone left in the kitchen stared at Quintin except for Uncle Paddy, who continued to eat without even looking up. “Ye’ve outdone yerself, lass,” he told Skyler. “This is delicious. Isn’t it—Quintin? That’s yer name, right?”

Quintin had been staring back at Skyler and Jamie, but now he turned his attention to Paddy. “Yes, it’s very good,” he said.

“Thank you,” Skyler said. Ridiculous. She was thanking a killer for complimenting her cooking. But they had to get through this somehow, and if being polite was what it would take, then she would be as polite as if she’d been valedictorian of a finishing school.

“You spend a lot of time cooking?” Quintin asked.

“Not really,” Skyler told him, and without thinking, started to rise. He tensed. “Sorry. I just thought I’d have a beer,” she said.

“I’ll have one while you’re up,” Quintin said.

“Hell, I’ll be joinin’ that party,” Paddy said.

Even Brenda spoke up. “Mrs. O’Boyle, I’d love a beer, too.”

“I’ll just grab a six-pack,” Skyler said. Poor Brenda. The girl was probably wishing herself miles and miles away right now.

She could have been with her own family. In fact, Frazier could have been with them, as well.

She was the reason they were here instead. She had subtly tried to make him feel guilty for even considering spending Christmas somewhere else. But, Frazier, you really should come while we still have the house. You know we’ll probably get rid of it soon, since there’s no sense keeping it now that you kids don’t really enjoy it anymore. Just this year…

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